A spruce top that sang back

Found it in a stack of old stock—quarter-sawn, grain tight like a held breath. No obvious flaws, but something in the way the light caught the rings made me pause. I didn’t plane it down to standard thickness; left it a hair thicker than usual. When I ran my fingers along the curve, it hummed. Not loud. Just a low, steady thrum, like a memory waking up. I don’t know what it’ll become yet—maybe nothing—but I’m letting it sit. Listening.